Kicked Off The Bus

Neil aged eleven on Table Mountain 1958

Kicked Off The Bus - An Apartheid Story

In December 1958 my mother, Frances, and us three boys visited Cape Town on the S.S. Rhodesia Castle. We had a sickening experience with a white South African Policeman which really soured our impression of the governing regime. One the bus ride to catch the cable car up to the top of Table Mountain, we were enjoying the knuckle roll the bus conductor could do, and we repeatedly asked him to show us his trick. The result was that a police officer asked us to get off the bus, and at the road side he told my mother off for talking to the African conductor.

In December 1958 my mother, Frances, and us three boys visited Cape Town on the S.S. Rhodesia Castle. We had a sickening experience with a white South African Policeman which really soured our impression of the governing regime. One the bus ride to catch the cable car up to the top of Table Mountain, we were enjoying the knuckle roll the bus conductor could do, and we repeatedly asked him to show us his trick. The result was that a police officer asked us to get off the bus, and at the road side he told my mother off for talking to the African conductor.

In December 1958 my mother, Frances, and us three boys visited Cape Town on the S.S. Rhodesia Castle. We had a sickening experience with a white South African Policeman which really soured our impression of the governing regime. One the bus ride to catch the cable car up to the top of Table Mountain, we were enjoying the knuckle roll the bus conductor could do, and we repeatedly asked him to show us his trick. The result was that a police officer asked us to get off the bus, and at the road side he told my mother off for talking to the African conductor.

In December 1958 my mother, Frances, and us three boys visited Cape Town on the S.S. Rhodesia Castle. We had a sickening experience with a white South African Policeman which really soured our impression of the governing regime. One the bus ride to catch the cable car up to the top of Table Mountain, we were enjoying the knuckle roll the bus conductor could do, and we repeatedly asked him to show us his trick. The result was that a police officer asked us to get off the bus, and at the road side he told my mother off for talking to the African conductor.

In December 1958 my mother, Frances, and us three boys visited Cape Town on the S.S. Rhodesia Castle. We had a sickening experience with a white South African Policeman which really soured our impression of the governing regime. One the bus ride to catch the cable car up to the top of Table Mountain, we were enjoying the knuckle roll the bus conductor could do, and we repeatedly asked him to show us his trick. The result was that a police officer asked us to get off the bus, and at the road side he told my mother off for talking to the African conductor.

In December 1958 my mother, Frances, and us three boys visited Cape Town on the S.S. Rhodesia Castle. We had a sickening experience with a white South African Policeman which really soured our impression of the governing regime. One the bus ride to catch the cable car up to the top of Table Mountain, we were enjoying the knuckle roll the bus conductor could do, and we repeatedly asked him to show us his trick. The result was that a police officer asked us to get off the bus, and at the road side he told my mother off for talking to the African conductor.

In December 1958 my mother, Frances, and us three boys visited Cape Town on the S.S. Rhodesia Castle. We had a sickening experience with a white South African Policeman which really soured our impression of the governing regime. One the bus ride to catch the cable car up to the top of Table Mountain, we were enjoying the knuckle roll the bus conductor could do, and we repeatedly asked him to show us his trick. The result was that a police officer asked us to get off the bus, and at the road side he told my mother off for talking to the African conductor.

 In December 1958 my mother, Frances, and us three boys visited Cape Town on the S.S. Rhodesia Castle. We had a sickening experience with a white South African Policeman which really soured our impression of the governing regime. On the bus ride to catch the cable car up to the top of Table Mountain, we were enjoying the knuckle roll the bus conductor could do, and we repeatedly asked him to show us his trick. The result was that a police officer asked us to get off the bus, and at the road side he told my mother off for talking to the African conductor. It was done in such a disgusting and racist way.  The memory never softens the experience.

In December 1958 my mother, Frances, and us three boys visited Cape Town on the S.S. Rhodesia Castle. We had a sickening experience with a white South African Policeman which really soured our impression of the governing regime. One the bus ride to catch the cable car up to the top of Table Mountain, we were enjoying the knuckle roll the bus conductor could do, and we repeatedly asked him to show us his trick. The result was that a police officer asked us to get off the bus, and at the road side he told my mother off for talking to the African conductor.

If you visit Cape Town
There’s one thing you must do,
Take a trip up Table Mountain
And there admire the view.
You have to take the Cable Car
Which will swing and sway
Right to the top where you can see
Lion’s Head and Table Bay.

When we toured Table Mountain
We went up by bus,
We left from the Market Square
My Mum and three of us.
The conductor did the knuckle roll
When he gave us our ticket
And every time he passed us by
We asked him to repeat it.

But on the bus a policeman
Was clearly not amused,
He approached my mother
And let us know his views.
“You get off the bus right now!
Get off at the next stop.
Get off I have to talk to you.”
Said the Yarpie Cop.

We stood by the roadside,
Way above CapeTown
Half way up the mountainside
He dressed my mother down.           
We stood there dumbfounded
Just astonished plaintiffs,
“It is against the law” He said.
“To fraternize with the natives.”
                   
It’s not like that now in Cape Town
There’s still one thing you must do,
Take a trip up Table Mountain
And there admire the view.
You have to take the Cable Car
Which will swing and sway
Right to the top where you can see
Lion’s Head and Table Bay.

Three Clocks

We have many clocks in our home, and three of them are old classics. I have had them repaired and keep them running, and I envision that each of our three children will one day take one to be in their home.

The first and the oldest clock is an English bracket clock from the 18th Century. It is a Saunders, and was made between 1672 - 1780. The enameled face when laterally transilluminated shows C.J. Saunders
381 Oxford Street.  It was my Grandma Thomas's clock, and was given to me in pieces by my Aunt Joan when I first came to California.  I took the clock to the California Clockmakers' Guild where it was completely repaired by Cecil Crookshank, what a wonderful name for a clockmaker. He was wonderful at his work.  That clock has kept perfect time for thirty six year already.

Wanting a chimer and loving the Dutch cases, I spotted the Delph clock on Crookshank's shelves.  Well a few hundred dollars later it was mine. It pings away sweetly.

Our third clock, also a chimer, was my wife Nancy's Grandmother's clock. Interestingly enough we were visiting after Bud Neely's tragic and sudden demise, and the children were allocating their Dad's stuff.  The broken parts of the clock were in a box, and no one was interested in it.  I took my bride to one side and said "Look Nancy, I can get that clock properly repaired."  Well the long and the short of it is that we wound up with the clock.  It is an American copy of the type of clock that Saunder's made all those years earlier, it was a knock off with a paper face.  It has a lovely deep chime and of course keeps good time.

We have many clocks in our home, and three of them are old classics. I have had then repaired and keep them running, and I envision that each of our three children will one day take one to be in their home

We have many clocks in our home, and three of them are old classics. I have had then repaired and keep them running, and I envision that each of our three children will one day take one to be in their home

We have many clocks in our home, and three of them are old classics. I have had then repaired and keep them running, and I envision that each of our three children will one day take one to be in their home

We have many clocks in our home, and three of them are old classics. I have had then repaired and keep them running, and I envision that each of our three children will one day take one to be in their home

Three Clocks

We have many clocks in our home, and three of them are old classics. I have had then repaired and keep them running, and I envision that each of our three children will one day take one to be in their home

We’ve three old clocks in our house
And they all tick away,
Two of them are chimers
And ring the hours of day.
One of them, the oldest,
Only tells the time,
All of them are accurate
And worthy of my rhyme.

The smallest is of china
All blue and white from Delph
A classic Dutch, just wind it,
And it runs by itself.
The movement on the inside
Is brass and made in France,
You’ll like to hear it ping the hours
Should you get a chance.

The black American Thomas
Has pillars edged with gold,
It belonged to my wife’s Grand Mama
And really it’s quite old.
A leather padded hammer
Strikes on the coiled gong,
And the pendulum swings back and forth
To keep it ticking on.

The bracket clock, a Saunders,
Was made on Oxford Street,
A case inlaid with beaten brass
Makes its face complete.
Side rings make the handles
And brazen balls the feet,
Which came be turned to change the tilt
So it can keep it’s beat.

We have three children and three clocks
And they all tick together,
The hours have turned into an age
And I have thought whenever,
They leave to raise a family
They’ll take one for their own
To remind them of the passing years
Which speedily have flown.

The Wrist Watch of Flying Ace Mills

The Wrist Watch of Flying Ace Mills

A true story about a real American hero who flew an F4F Wildcat at Guadalcanal in1942

There are stories told by those who are bold
Who return from fighting a war,
There are lies that thrive as the myths survive
When no one remembers the score.
There are tales of skill in the grip of will
When your luck is all but run out,
And one worth a notch is "The Pilot’s Watch"
And that is what this is all about.

“Have I told you about where I lost my wrist watch?”
Said retired Colonel Mills as he gulped on his Scotch,
“No Millsy, I don’t think that you ever did!”
Said his pal at the bar as he took a big swig.
“Well it happened one day down in Guadalcanal,”
Went on Flying Ace Mills, looking straight at his pal.
“We were stationed you see on this God f’saken isle,
And there wasn’t a bar for a thousand mile.
I was with the Marines and true to their form
It was damn hot and buggy and the beer was warm.
But there were perks for being a pilot you see,
And one was the wrist watch they issued to me.”

“That wrist watch was big and it kept perfect time,
All pilots had one - I really loved mine.
I’d check it each morning when I saw the light
And be out on the runway to make the first flight.
Then up and away to the clouds and the blue
In a Wildcat to spot any Zeros in view.
But they rarely start early and there wasn’t much fear
So they’d filled my compartments with liquor and beer.
If I left at eight, I could be back by ten,
There rarely would be any Zeros till then,
For the Japs took their time, they had breakfast before,
They loaded their bombs and then flew off to war.”

“Now why?” said his pal, his attention complete,
“Did you have all that hootch tucked away ’neath your seat?”
“Ah well!” answered Millsy, “As I flew around
It was a lot cooler than down on the ground.
For two hours I’d watch for an enemy plane
Radio my position and come back again.
And they all ran to meet me when I landed on time,
And I never was late with that wrist watch of mine.
They’d empty the contents of my baggage hold,
For the beer and the liquor was by then freezing cold.
Just the way that we like it to slake a deep thirst,
We could do it because the Japs liked breakfast first.”

“There was just enough time for that once I got back
To re-fuel my plane and take off to attack.
The ten o’clock flights were not like the milk run,
With bombers and fighters it wasn’t much fun.”
We flew up to meet with the oncoming force
Of big Mitsubishis and Zeros of course,
Their pilots were good and those Zeros were fast
And a dog fight began so they couldn’t get past.
We started up high where the air was a frazin’
Screamed down on their cans with our Brownings a’blazin’
Their fighters turn nosed up and their cannon pop popped
And down to the sea the first casualty dropped.”

“We arch up and away to regain our height
Come round with a roar to get back in the fight.
The radio’s blarin’, that there’s guns on my rear,
I peel up through a cloud bank, they all disappear,
Up, up I keep climbing till out top I drone
To see four Bettys in diamond formation, alone.
Nose up to the first one I aimed for his turret
Spattered his rear and tail gunner in it,
Dipped down to aim for the wing frame connection
And lit that “cigar” in one flash conflagration,
Then rolling to make sure I just missed his wing,
Soared up and curved round to restart the whole thing.”

“This time as I drop I’m in three gunners sights
I see the gun’s flash so I swing to the right.
Ploughing back I descend on the right bomber’s flank
Squeezed on the trigger and blew up his tank.
Then falling away I banked up and turned
As that big Mitsubishi just curled down and burned.
I was climbing again to make the third run
When the tail gunner got me a bead with his gun.
I saw the guns flash and I heard the shells chatter
And about me cannon rounds rattle and clatter,
Then a clunk and a shudder I knew something was wrong,
I looked down at my arm and my wrist watch was gone.”

“Well that got my attention I was mad as can be
That gunner had taken my wrist watch from me.
My left arm felt broken but I carried on,
Determined to stop them from dropping a bomb.
I peeled down to the right, and curved back with a roar
Nosed up on his tale and to even the score,
As soon as I sighted him I just let go
Plastering his tail with just row upon row.
The turret just shattered as I made my pass
Pieces were falling out, metal and glass,
And then something happened that so bothered me
The gunner’s top half fell out down to the sea.”

Then his pal tried to swallow and clearing his throat
Said, “Wow, Millsy.” and stammered, “Well that ain’t no joke.”
“No it wasn’t.” said the Colonel, as he clutched at his glass.
“But I drained all my ammo as I made my last pass.
With no watch, and no timer I headed for home,
The wireless was dead I was there all alone.
They poured out to meet me when I came in to land
One with a beer, that was still cold, in hand.
When they asked how it went, “Oh, just easy I lied.”
They could see the great canon hole on my port side.
“It’s a miracle you made it now how can that be?”
“I was saved by the wrist watch they issued to me!”

There are stories told by those who are bold
Who return from fighting a war,
There are lies that thrive as the myths survive
When no one remembers the score.
There are tales of skill in the grip of will
When your luck is all but run out
And one worth a notch is "The Pilot’s Watch"
And that is what it's all about.



Betty - Mitsubishi G4M Bomber
Zero - Japanese Fighter plane
F4F Wildcat - Rugged American Fighter Plane

Browning - M2 12.7 mm (0.50 caliber) machine guns. Wild cats had four.

A Stone In The River - Eve Senn

For my dear friend Even Senn who passed away from Leukemia just days ago. A daughter of Colonial Kenya, born of European parents in a time and place that has vanished. She loved a flowing river, and named her daughters after two great rivers in Kenya, the Tana, and the Mara. For many years Eve and her family celebrated our mutual East African connection by having gatherings we called the Wajinga.  A group enthusiasts used to get together the share memories, sing songs and show movies and pictures. Her parents Lisa and Imre and Eve's bother and sister  Johnny and Julia were also firm friends.

A stone fell in the river           
Piercing the smooth dark glassy mirror
Plunging deep into its heart
Visible at first, then sinking
Absorbed down into the matted bed.
The water erupting at the point of entry
Rising out and up above the reflection
The reactionary spurt of excitement peaks,
Pauses and falls into ripples
Circling outward to the banks and grasses
Reverberating back in an eternity of entropy
Softening and never ending.

Eve is that stone,
Piercing our protective shells
Of awareness with exuberant enthusiasm,
Plunging into our hearts with warmth and affection,
Sinking into our psyches unnoticed
Lying there embedded,
Stirring reactions within us all
As her influence ripples out and around us forever,
Never ending, vibrating in all she touched

http://poetry.com/poems/688349-A-Stone-In-The-River

The Buffalo is the emblem of the Wajinga, a Swahili word for mad people.  We are mad about East Africa. The Swahili word for Buffalo is Niati

WAJINGA

 

Uffington Remembrance

At Uffington a white horse can be seen carved into the hillside above which once stood and ancient castle. It is an easy climb up the hill, and when the wind is stiff it make a perfect spot to fly kites, if you have the time.

Upon my back beneath clear sky
At Uffington I lay,
The wind was fresh and kites would fly
For many an hour that day.
The people came to see the mound
Where the castle used to be,
And the white horse cut out from the hill
To celebrate some victory.

While staring up into the air
I was made once more aware
Of the beauty nature brings,
Flowers and grass and wind that sings.
And how we in our city-rush
Can push and shove and make a fuss,
And miss the pleasure in our haste
Because we have no time to waste.


I visited Uffington a number of times when we lived in Oxford.  A pleasant spot to drive to, and there are some nice pubs in the area for a Sunday lunch.

Losing My Wheels

A picture of Alan Johnson and  Ian Urquhart.
Alan's father, Ernest William Johnson - at 93, asked his son if he was coming home to Australia for Christmas.  He used an expression to convey how his body was beginning to fail, he said "the wheels are falling off Son".  Well my friend, Alan Johnson, the Australian Hotelier, told me the tale and this poem is the result!

Are you coming home for Christmas Son?
Are you flying back to Auz?
The time is going by so fast
I thought I’d ask because,
I’d really like to see you,
I’m not down or in a trough,
It’s just that, well I have to say,
My wheels are falling off.

I’ve had a darn good run my Son,
I made it through the War,
Stood up for king and country
And the family I adore.               
There are those who might considering
Such values turn and scoff,
But I hope to see you soon because,
My wheels are falling off.

The carriage is getting shaky Son,
It rattles and it groans,
It takes more time to start it up
I feel it in my bones.
When you’re home we’ll raise a glass
Not down it with a quaff,
I pace myself these days because
My wheels are falling off!

You might soon have to take my place
In the Anzac Day Parade
And wear my salad on the right,
To show a price was paid,
And when you meet the other few
Your cap you’ll smartly doff
And tell them briefly ’bout you Pa
Whose wheels have fallen off.

I had shared the recent loss of my mother with Alan Johnson.  He told me that he had to go home to see his dad who was ninety three and getting old and tired, and used the expression his father used "My wheels are falling off son". Hid Dad was a soldier and in Australia and New Zealand the old soldiers celebrate Anzac Day ( Australia, New Zealand Army Corps). You should know that on the passing of a relative it is appropriate to wear their medals on the right chest. Hence this poem

A friend of mine with whom I had shared the recent loss of my mother, told me that he had to go home to see his dad who was ninety three and getting old and tired, and used the expression his father used "My wheels are falling off son". Hid Dad was a soldier and in Australia and New Zealand the old soldiers celebrate Anzac Day ( Australia, New Zealand Army Corps). You should know that on the passing of a relative it is appropriate to wear their medals on the right chest. Hence this poem

A friend of mine with whom I had shared the recent loss of my mother, told me that he had to go home to see his dad who was ninety three and getting old and tired, and used the expression his father used "My wheels are falling off son". Hid Dad was a soldier and in Australia and New Zealand the old soldiers celebrate Anzac Day ( Australia, New Zealand Army Corps). You should know that on the passing of a relative it is appropriate to wear their medals on the right chest. Hence this poem

A friend of mine with whom I had shared the recent loss of my mother, told me that he had to go home to see his dad who was ninety three and getting old and tired, and used the expression his father used "My wheels are falling off son". Hid Dad was a soldier and in Australia and New Zealand the old soldiers celebrate Anzac Day ( Australia, New Zealand Army Corps). You should know that on the passing of a relative it is appropriate to wear their medals on the right chest. Hence this poem

The poem is getting nice reviews on poetry.com, and you can see them on this link: Losing My Wheels

Burns Night Again - 33 year slaying haggis

Burns Night was celebrated at the Tam O' Shanter Restaurant and at the Cal Tech Athenaeum this year.  It was the thirty third year slaying haggis at the Tam, and once again Ivan was with me.  I frequently call on Ivan when I deliver the line "But mark the rustic, haggis fed" and tenderly pat him on his rotunda.  This year this aspect of the celebration included for the first time Nacho, the long standing bus boy, who gleefully teases us with comments in veiled Spanish, which I am sure implies that Tequila is better that whiskey.

Nacho ready for a dram

We had many of the usual crew at the Tam, a fiddler and story weaving "wenches" the parade of the haggis with the bonniest piper, Prescindia McIntosh, and Chef Ivan Harrison, and a packed house ready for good food and a light hearted celebration of the birth of Scotland's great poet Robert Burns.

Chef Ivan amidst admirers

Not to be out done the Athenaeum's Chef Kevin Isacsson dismissed himself again with the most delicious haggis which was correctly served with bashed neeps and tatties, and was prepared and displayed in sheep's stomach.

Chef Kevin Isacsson and the haggis

Our theme this year was the songs of Robert Burns, and snippets of Burns best known tunes were played by Jan Tappen, director of the Scottish Fiddlers, and Obin and Chris, and sung by Neil McLeod and the audience

 

Haunting the Eighteenth Hole

Col J.W. Mills - Taken the day he became an Ace at Guadalcanal 1942

Col. J. W. Mills 1981 - 2001
A story for my friend Mike Mills about his father a golfer whose children grew up as golf lovers. Like their father, they absolutely loved to play Pebble Beach.  Col Mills was a Marine Ace pilot at Guadalcanal. He retired to be a Mathematics teacher and golf coach for San Francisco State.

Colonel Mills was an ornery fellow
He rose through the ranks in the Corps,
A Marine of note and distinction
Whose passion in life was a ball.
He joined the Marines on an option
It was five years in clink or enlist,
He had stone-brained a street gang opponent,
He was savage, well! you get the gist.

When you join Semper Fi as a private
It’s not without lots of hard work
That you rise through the ranks to be Full Bird
And take playing golf as a perk.
He just loved the big open spaces
Like runways, groomed greens and the sky
And he wasn’t above getting liberally oiled
At the end of the day to get high.

He retired to a home with a fairway,
A driving range was his back yard,
He could simply turn out in the morning
And wack a few balls really hard.
Then sure that his form was still winning
He’d sally forth in his sleek Cadillac
To meet with his cronies and play a round,
And “hoist a few” on the way back.

But one day he missed his appointment
His pals on the links heard the gong,
They knew with the colonel not showing
That something was terribly wrong.
He’d played his life hard with a vengeance
But cancer had riddled his form
And it wasn’t long before family and friends
Would be laying him under the lawn.

But he wanted no plot for a internment
He’d rather it brief and serene
He asked that whatever they got in the pot
Was scattered around on a green.
Not just any green took his fancy
For hallowed ground he made his reach,
He asked that his sons take his ashes
And scatter them at Pebble Beach.

So his lads took a drive down to Carmel,
They booked for a round on the course
They made little mounds at the eighteen hole
And swung at the ashes full force.
Then satisfied with all their labor
They sauntered away full of mirth
Making a line for the club house
And a night of it with “Surf and Turf”.

Those boys knew his spirit would linger
Haunting where he loved to play,
Together they’d pulled off a fast one,
And no one could take that away.
Now they watch for the match shots together
With successive angles they each
Search for the face of their Pa in the crowd
By the eighteen hole at Pebble Beach.
    1/18/2013

F4F Wildcat Gaudalcanal 1942

Waterman Ladies

Set back from the roadside       
    Beyond the lawn and path           
There’s a tall-roofed gabled house,
    With kitchen and a hearth.
Carpets in the living room,           
    A wide cozy divan,                   
A home amongst the college halls
    They call it “Waterman”.

The residents are ladies,
    Hillsdale colleagues all,
Who take pride as they entertain
    When others come to call;
Patriotic damsels, virtuous and true
    Diligent supporters
Of the white and blue.               

Should you on Tuesday evenings,       
    Drop in by chance you’ll see
The denizens and visitors
    Enjoying a cup of tea.
Young men from Delts might be there,
    Mu Alphans and Phi Mus
They take a break away from work
    To air their news and views

It is now a tradition
    Among that active throng,
To nurture arts of hearth and home   
    While yet they labor long.
In the wee hours of the morning
    When others have gone to bed,
The lights are on in Waterman
    They’re working late instead.


For my daughter Maran who, enjoying the company of its residents, applied for and has succeeded in making Waterman her college domicile.

    Dr Neil Stewart McLeod - January 2013

Dressed To Kill - A poem

Fun In The Snow
Between Christmas and New Year we drove up to Lake Hume in the Sequoia National Forrest for some family time in the snow.  We McLeods went up with Mary Chin to join our new friends the Lippincotts. The drive into the Forrest was magical, we had chains on the van, and it was as if we were flying in some 3D movie past the fluttering  snowflakes.  We all stayed at Tim Denton's "cabin" in the Lake Hume Christian Camps area.


Now both Marc Lippincott and I had trouble with our chains during the last part of the drive, and had thrown a cross strap.  We both dressed up warmly and were out in the snow looking for tools and a way to fix the chains.  Tea was brought, and Orange Christmas cookies, and as we stood taking our first sips I asked Marc to tell me a story.

Specialist 4th Class Private Lippincott, Germany 1955

Marc told me a hunting story about his father.  He explained that his Dad, Wendell, was a soldier in Germany, and was a crack shot, nearly a "sharpshooter", and that after serving in the U.S. Army he kept up his skill in hunting. His favorite hunting spot was in the Western Hills of Colorado and sometimes he would tow a trailer out with him in his little red pickup truck so his wife could be comfortable when she came along. Whether away on the hunt or back home in California, Wendell always dressed for church. He wore a three piece suite and shiny shoes to church on Sundays, even on a hunting trip. Then he told me this tale:

Dressed To Kill

Wendell was a soldier,
He served in Germany,
And returned to California
To raise a family.
He loved to go a’hunting
In the Colorado hills
Sometimes he’d bring his wife along
So she could share the thrills.

When she came he towed a trailer
With his red pickup truck,
So she could camp in comfort
While he went to shoot a buck.
And they still kept the Sabbath
He’d wear his Sunday best
Even in the Western Hills
He’d wear a suit and vest.

Now, early Sunday morning
As they left to make for town,
He tucked his rifle in the cab
Before they headed down.
In his suite and shiny shoes
While driving past he spied
A multi-pointed buck a’grazing
Close to the roadside.

Temptation won, he stopped the truck
Got out, gun on display,
And in his three piece Sunday suit
Saw that buck slip away,
He followed soft behind it,
Excitement in command,
Adrenaline rushing, one clean shot
Brought that buck to ground.

The Lord’s Day was forgotten,
He had to claim his kill,
And spent the morning taking steps
To cart it up the hill.
Wendell was a sportsman,
He loved to hunt and shoot.
He shot a stag one Sunday morn
In his best three piece suite.

Wendell Dressed to the nines

Anselmo - Return to the Chapel on the Hill

Today we revisited Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows, the chapel on the hills at the Anselmo Vineyards.
What an astonishing accomplishment Reverge Anselmo has achieved.  What a blessing to the community and all who visit.

We dined to celebrate Nancy's birthday, and Reverge allowed us to sample his fine Cabernet wine, which is rich, smooth, round and sweet, with a fruity nose. The food is delectable and the chef takes a great personal delight in creating memorable dishes impeccably displayed.

After lunch we walked up through the vineyard to the new sanctuary. immediately one is struck by the completeness of the project which a year ago was having the roof placed on the tower.  Thoughtfully placed Cypress trees add a traditional old world timelessness to our approach of this inspirational setting.

Ascending the tower one can take in the view down across the daintily groomed vines to the ranch buildings set among the oak trees, and out in the distance the snow-capped peaks of Mount Lassen. Beside you are three handsome bells, Bernadette, Simeon and John. The castings are beautiful and the tones that peel out over the valley are perfectly pitched.

The completed sanctuary exquisite with a mosaic of Abraham and the visit from the three angels above the altar, (Genesis 18:2), an iconic recreation of the Rublev's Trinity.

The view out of the huge church doors is of the vineyards and the distant mountains.

We left enriched and uplifted from the experience,

and will surely return!

Frances Cecilia Clutton 1915 - 2012 Obituary

Frances Cecilia McLeod

November 15 1915 - October 31 2012

Frances Cecila Clutton, the daughter of Francis Owen Clutton, Solicitor and Elizabeth Atherton, and grand daughter of Henry Clutton, the renowned English Architect, was born on the “Rocks”, 493 Alfred Street, in Sydney Harbour in a Seaman’s Medical Refuge center after a rough voyage from Wellington, New Zealand on the Steam ship Ulimaroa. She was raised in England and educated at Roehampton and on the Continent by the Sacred Heart Nuns.

When war broke out in 1939 she applied and was accepted into the Wrens (Women's Royal Naval Service) and was stationed in the Admiralty Command Centre in Liverpool.  She was a war bride marrying Roderick Murdoch McLeod RHR (Royal Highland Regiment) in Torquay, Devon on 28th February 1942.  They made a home in Oxford where her husband was to attend Merton College.  His recruitment by the Foreign Service to work in Kenya drew the family to that colony in 1951.  Though estranged by 1953 she struggled on to support her family returning to England in 1958. For years she worked in a variety of positions both menial and professional in school catering, assistant nursing and as a librarian in The Institute of Commonwealth Studies "Queen Elizabeth House" in Oxford, and she retired to Australia in the1980's to the mild climate at the foot of the Blue Mountains. She is survived by her five children Flora, Neil, Alan, Roida and Ewan, and numerous grandchildren and great grandchildren.  Frances was well educated and greatly gifted.  She wrote beautiful songs and poems.  Her Kenyan songs and the “Skye Lullaby” are recognized treasures.  Bright and cheerful to the end she finally succumbed to complications from right side heart failure just a few days shy of her 97th birthday.  On the Feast of All Souls, Mass was offered at St. Andrew's, a church our mother loved when she was in Edinburgh, for her repose.

Frances was a close friend of Dame Flora MacLeod of MacLeod, and her eldest daughter Flora was born on Skye, the MacLeod Chief became her Godmother.  The strong link to the Clan MacLeod has been a part of her children's lives.
                                   


Do not lament my passing,
Rejoice, my long life is through.
Know where I go there is rest and peace
And I shall be waiting for you.

Scatter me down by the river
I’ve sung my very last song.
Scatter me down where water slips
Past the rills as it flows along.       

Scatter me where my thoughts would go
On a hot Australian day,
By pool and bend and at the end
To the sea as I slip away.

There on the banks of the Nepean
Should you once more chance to hear
The piercing note of the Bellbird’s call
Think I may linger near!

No more will I sigh or shudder
At the turmoil here below,
For my soul is freed to wander
To my long home I go.

Sixty Five - a reflection

Six o’clock
And the morning air is chilly
With the moon descending on the western hill
And Orion’s belt standing out bright and clear
With Sirius and Jupiter to the left and the right
And Venus way over to the east
Where the sun will rise on my birthday.

Sixty five is the number
But my early venturing was to reconnoiter,
Were those nimble varmints, the racoons,
Digging up my lawn for worms again?
Padding down the upturned turf
Is not my chosen treat
Especially today!

Far across the globe
My mother, who bore me
On a colder morning so long ago,
Now slips softly into a coma of quiet waiting,
For God to call her home,
And the World turns
Another time.

Hillsdale College - Cookies with Audrey

Waterman Residence - Hillsdale College

Cookies with Audrey
Audry Gray and my daughter Maran are friends at Hillsdale College in Michigan. 
Nancy and I visited the School for Parents Weekend in 2012 and sat up late in 
Waterman Residence as the girls baked us cookies to go with our tea.

The moonlight fell on Waterman
Through limbs with thinning leaves,
And from the student’s living room
A glow shone out through the trees.
Within we both sat waiting
Defying the hour so late,
And the pot on the hob was starting to bob
And the cookies were starting to bake.

What a night it had been, where we dined
Olivia’s Chop House showed it’s charms,
Then a classical concert in Sage on the stage
With Dvorak, Mozart and Brahms.
For an hour we watched the kids swinging
As the Hillcats played Howard Hall,
And the leaves from the trees danced and fell in the breeze
Now summer had changed into Fall.

Out into the dark we retreated
Not wanting the reveling to end,
So we crossed the campus and Galloway Drive
To Waterman with Maran’s friend.
And there in the night we sat waiting
Ensconced on the long soft settee,
For a chance of a bite of a cookie at night
Served by Maran and Audrey with tea.

Neil Stewart McLeod 10/26/2012

Fall Colors on Campus- Abigail Wood, Audrey Gray and Maran

The Black Watch Get New Colors at the Seaside Highland Games

RSM, Mike Benjamin– Accepts the Colors from Dr Neil McLeod

This week end the 12th and 13th of October 2012 saw the holding of the 10th annual Seaside Highland Games, John and Nellie Lowry's great gift to Southern California.  What a tremendous job they and their team of supporters have done in continuing this tradition.  The guests of honor were Richard and Kate Graham the Chieftain of Clan Graham in North America, appointed by the 8th Duke of Montrose in 1992.  They had a family dinner which I was fortunate enough to attend,  before reciting Angus MacIntyre's "The SS Politician" at the Saturday night Ceilidh. The real life story of this legendary tale can be heard from a living witness Joe MacAskill.

Apart from telling tales in my tent as Story Teller for the Games, the high point of the week-end for me was the presentation of Black Watch Colors to  for the 42nd Black Watch Highland Society.

These colors were made by my friend John Pomeroy, the artist and illustrator and animator, who before leaving Los Angeles for Tennessee, presented to me the beautiful flag he had made which bore the insignia of my father, Lieutenant Colonel Roderick McLeod's regiment.  John had made the flag up for some movie detail he was working upon, and since his leaving I have guarded the flag in my garage.  John told me this standard is a exact copy of the 42nd Regimental colour use at Quatre Bras & Waterloo. Now thankfully it will really be appreciated by a society of Black Watch enthusiasts.

The new Colors proudly flying

A high point each day was the appearance by the 1st Marine Division Band.  These soldiers dismissed themselves in first class fashion bring smiles and tear of emotion  as they commanded everyone's attention.  The Music  and the presentations were first class.  See them as they play as the Black Watch parade their new colors.

Ned Nelsen - A Good Man

Ned's 90th

 1920 - 2012
Picture courtesy of J. Lee Braly

 Of Ned his family wrote: Ned was born in 1920 on a farm in Neely, Nebraska; started his education in a one-room schoolhouse; and loved attending reunions of his high school class.  Following service in WWII in New Guinea, Ned attended USC on the GI Bill and received both his undergraduate and law degrees.  He was a prominent criminal defense and family law attorney here in Los Angeles beginning in the 1950s.  Ned was featured in the book “A Death in California” which later became a television movie with Cheryl Ladd.  Ned’s only complaint about the mini-series was that he thought Robert Redford should have played him.  Ned was a member of Rancheros; an avid hunter who shot birds in Montana and wild game in Africa; and a pilot who flew with friends such as ace airman Bob Hoover.  Ned was a tall and elegant gentleman, dapper in his dress and particular about manners and grammar.  He was a gourmet chef at home and regularly dined at classic Los Angeles restaurants such as Perino’s and Chasen’s.  And he made the best Ramos Fizz on the planet, a recipe he somewhat reluctantly taught.

Over the last three years I have been knowing that the moment would come when I would want to write and express sentiments which only mature and find expression at times like this. Until the instant when their appropriateness is confirmed, not till then does one put "pen to paper" or dare to verbally express their content.  But now is the time.  Ned was a fine man, a devoted man, a good man, and a man whose interrupted family life was shattered when the wife he cared so much for met her premature demise. That life was rekindled with the infectious enthusiasm for living which he shared with a new bride.  The Lord knows they both took what came by the horns. We might spend time in remorse for his passing, but in reality this is a time to celebrate the accomplishments and the achievements of a full life.  Not to acknowledge that I loved Ned would be a failing.  The Christmas goose he would tuck in the back of my car, the Macallan well aged and a deep dram, and the dry wit.  I have been privileged to serve the Man so many have loved, and I pray that the sweetest memories remain to soften the loss they must feel at this time.

A Good Man

It takes a lot of time before you really know a man,
A lot of hours of talking and watching how he stands
Upon the things that matter
And the way that he reacts
To the challenges that come his way,
It’s then you know the facts.

You really never get to know someone in just a day,
It takes an awful lot of time before you guess the way
They’ll respond when under pressure
Or when something’s done that’s wrong,
And how in private moments
They’ll behave when folks are gone.

You can’t tell how good and loving a man is going to be
Until he kneels and prays for help, and when it counts if he
Will always go the extra mile
And temper all with love,
And be there for you through thick and thin
When push comes to shove.

But if upon reflection looking back through time you find,
That a man you’ve known was always strong and decent warm and kind,
Then you’ve really had a blessing
That few of us can boast
And when tears dry you’ll be clinging
To the memories you love most.

"Harness the Power of Technology" - Orange Country Cental Society

Hats off to Orange County Dental Society for hosting a first class Technology forum.  This meeting was a pleasure to attend, not because I was the opening speaker talking about web presence and social media for dentists, but because of the way it was organized and the high quality of each of the presentations made on subjects we all need to know more about.

From beginning to end this was an excellent event.  There was good food at every break, excellent corporate support with a wide range of dental support companies promoting their products and a speaking program with enough time to for each speaker to get their points across.

      

President
Mark Maxwell
 and his team did an excellent  job

Immediate Past President
David L. Guichet
was the Program Director
and I especially want to thank Laura Petersen who is the Executive Director for the Orange County Deatal  Society who was my contact person.

The venue was the Anaheim Hilton and there was a  broad based corporate sponsorship for the event. The schedule of lectures can be viewed here: the following topis were discussed.:

Dr. Lyndon Cooper D.D.S., Ph.D. showed that digital dentistry is here in his talk entitled

Digital Dentistry at a Tipping Point

Scott Ganz, DMD
Advances in 3D Digital Imaging Modalites and Beyond

Cloud Computing. . .The Future of Dental Informatics   
Rick Roblee, DDS

Digital Clinical Dentistry with Dr Baldwin Marchak DDS, MBA always an entertaining speaker

Effective Social Networking. . .An Essential Marketing Tool  myself


Georgios E. Romanos, DDS, PhD, Prof. gave a  tremendous expose on
Lasers in Dentistry. . .Enlighten Yourself

Secure Your Patients Data. . .Don't Be a Victim  - Ron Vesely

Train with the Trainer  - Karina Santos taught how important it is to be up to date with the new features of your dental software particularly Dentrix
Michael Unthank, DDS talked on Transitioning to Paperless

Corporate Forums

This event should have been attended by members from all the various dental societies in the area.

Blue September - Prostate Awareness

Los Angeles City Hall was lit up all blue on Thursday evening, and the Police Helicopters and news teams were flying around the top of the tower in salute of Blue September. Inside a small gathering was present in the Mayor Tom Bradley Hall to officially inaugurate this years observation of this outreach program to raise the public's awareness of the importance of taking precautions to catch prostate cancer early.



A band was playing and speeches were given. With New Zealand Consulate support Dr . Howard Sandler M.D., MS the Chair of Radiation Oncology at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center was introduced to discuss the new developments in treatment modalities and early detection and treatment of prostate cancer.






Councilman Tom La Bonge was introduced by his ever trusty assistant Isaac Burks. Tom was there to present an official proclamation from the Los Angeles City Council. These are always splendid documents.
The building is a truly remarkable edifice which was completed in 1928, the architecture and the ornamentation is truly exquisite. Surrounding the top of the four sides of the hall is the following inscriptions starting with Thomas Jefferson's 1807 comment “That Government is strongest of which every man feels himself a part”. Also is to be seenon the other three sides, “With written laws the humblest in the state is sure of equal justice with the great”
“The City came into being to preserve life. It exists for the good life”
“No government demands so much from the citizens as democracy and gives so much back”.


I wish that we all felt as positively about local government as these inscriptions suggest we might.


Neil and Isaac

Walnuts it seems prevent prostate cancer. California Walnuts sponsor Blue September