North to Alaska

Right in the Kisser!

Almost everyone has seen The Kiss, the famous painting by Gustav Klimt. However, how many of you have seen the news photo of French President Jacques Chirac kissing the hand of Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice at the Elysee Palace in Paris on March 30, 2006? Could it signal an end to the frigid diplomatic relationship between France and the United States? Don’t laugh! Kisses can be important.

So important that the English have a National Kissing Day every July 6, incidentally, right after American Independence Day.

Back in the second decade of the 20^th Century, Gregory Rasputin was busy kissing and making out with the women in the Russian Imperial Court when he was not busy meddling in affairs of the state. Or maybe he had affairs of the state confused with his own personal affairs. Anyway, when protests were voiced to her Majesty Alexandria about his behavior, she defended him. She said, “Look at the apostles. They kissed everyone.” Probably not the same way that Rasputin was kissing the Russian women. Since the protests had fallen on deaf ears, the dashing young princes of the Russian Court acted unilaterally—by getting Rasputin drunk and shooting him.

An earlier example of some note occurred in Austria back in 1782. Joseph II, the Habsburg Emperor, was guilty of, shall we say, a few minor offenses to which the Church took strong exception. He had introduced religious toleration throughout his domain. He had made marriage a civil ceremony instead of a religious one. He had banned the use of coffins in burial. He had replaced Latin in Church services with German, Czech, Magyar, Italian, and etc. where it was appropriate. He had also abolished the monasteries throughout Austria and had seized a few million acres that they would no longer need since they were out of business. All in all, it was enough to get the Pope’s attention—his immediate attention. He hastened to Vienna to visit Joseph II, but he was fearful enough for his own life that he brought his own food taster along with him—just to be on the safe side. Upon his arrival he went through all the required ceremonies associated with an official visit to a head of state. And then he precipitated a major crisis by extending his hand for the obligatory kiss by Joseph II. Now if you have been reading very carefully, you should realize that there was no way that Joseph would ever kiss that hand. A standoff? Not quite. Prince Anton Kaunitz who was serving as Joseph’s chancellor quickly grasped the seriousness of this awkward moment. Quick thinking, he rushed over and grabbed the hand of Pius VI and shook it—thus avoiding a major diplomatic showdown.

Diplomatic affronts are not to be taken lightly. Back in 1830, Charles X of France sent troops to Algeria. He had been seething with anger for three years because in 1827 Hussein Dey, the Ottoman ruler of Algiers, had struck the French consul general with a fly swatter during the heat of an argument. It was an unprecedented breach of diplomatic etiquette. But what could Charles do? He thought surely that the uncouth Algerians would surely do something even more outrageous. But when they had not done anything else in three years, he decided that he could wait no longer. In short order the French made Algeria into a French colony.

Yet another breach of diplomatic etiquette occurred in 1992. In Atlanta, the national flag of Canada was flown upside down for a World Series Baseball game between the Atlanta Braves and the Toronto Blue Jays. In their defense, the citizens of Atlanta protested. “How would we know?” The Blue Jays, most of whom were just good old boys of American ancestry, defended Canadian national honor by hammering the Braves four games to two to take the series.

Are there any more lessons that we can learn from history? Albert Einstein is quoted as saying,” Any Man who can drive safely while kissing a pretty girl is simply not giving the kiss the attention it deserves.” Fair Enough! Sacha Guitry, the famous French playwright of the early 20^th century, is on record as saying, “I am in favor of preserving the French habit of kissing ladies’ hand—after all, one must start somewhere.” It might be a good thing that Edwin Edwards, former governor of Louisiana, is not representing US interests in France. While campaigning for office there he was asked why he was not kissing the babies. He responded that “I much prefer kissing their mommies!” Not exactly very diplomatic. But on the other hand when Ben Franklin was representing the young American republic’s interests in France, he too was busy kissing the French women when he was not tinkering with diplomatic issues. So maybe Chirac’s kissing the hand of Rice is ok after all. Assuming he knows where to stop.

Real Southern Hospitality!

About ten years ago Linny and Susan Pacillo of Anchorage took exception to the number of parking tickets issued by the municipality and decided to do something about it. So they dressed in pink tutus and drove around the city feeding money into expired parking meters. Grateful citizens bestowed upon them the title of the parking fairies. Oh, those magnificent fairies in their pink tutus.
It seems that people are always taking exception to the actions of duly appointed law officials. Speeding tickets are high on everyone’s list. The heyday of fuzzbusters came and went. People could and did resort to elaborate excuses to explain their penchant for driving over the limit. I know one female who was pulled over and as the officer of the law approached her car, she kicked off her shoe and jammed it under the gas pedal. She obliging explained her dilemma to the man. He forgave her and she lived to speed another day. Now, if you are a man it might not work for you, especially if you are wearing boots. Two problems come to mind. First, how do you get a tight-fitting boot off in a jiffy? Secondly, how are you going to make it fit under the gas pedal? Of course, if the smell is bad enough, the officer might gag and forget all about the ticket. Another useful excuse is a bee sting. But you had better make sure that there is a bee in the car, or at least something that can pass for a bee. Spelling bees don’t count. Another female who was prone to drive 85 or so mph, spotted a flashing light in her rear view mirror. Instead of stopping she proceeded pell mell down the road until she spotted a service station. She pulled in and ran frantically toward the restroom. When she reappeared her only words were: “Whew! Just made it!” The officer smiled and put his ticket book back into his pocket. The ladies always seem to have the best excuses.
But what do you do if you get caught in an honest to gosh speed trap. There are still several of them around the country. My first and only run-in with one occurred way back about 1967. I was traveling from Houston to Lake Charles, Louisiana, and unfortunately for me I had to cross over into the fringes of Vinton, Louisiana. I was in a bit of a hurry and I was going about two miles faster than legally permitted. I sailed past a car with its trunk up and some odds and ends beside the left rear tire. Obviously, someone was changing a flat. At least that it what I was supposed to think. The only thing was that the car had four crisp new tires. The odds and ends were really radar equipment. As I topped the hill I saw a long train of cars pulled over on the shoulder and some flashing lights. There was also a road block on the interstate. I thought there must be an accident. Wrong! Soon an officer approached me with a pad in hand and asked to see my driver’s license. He proceeded to write me a ticket and told me to follow all the other cars when they started moving again. He kept my license. I looked down at the ticket and saw that he had added three miles to my actual speed. I had always heard that the folks in Louisiana were not particularly good at math. When there were about fifty car arranged in a nice straight line, we were escorted to the courthouse. We each forked over five bucks to get our driver’s license back. We were told that if we wished to contest the ticket, we would have to come back four days later to traffic court. The idea of essentially spending two days of my time to contest the matter was preposterous. So I thanked the good people of Vinton for their warm hospitality and left. As I drove away from the courthouse I saw another line of fifty cars approaching. My parting wish was that each of them would give thanks for true Southern hospitality—Louisiana style.

The Passing of an Era!

The Brown Brothers came to Anchorage at the end of World War II and started two successful enterprises: The Lucky Wishbone and an A&W Root Beer Restaurant. Leon Brown, the founder of the local A&W, recently died. The A&W label everywhere is long past its glory days. Today you can get the Frosty Mug Taste but you can’t get the Frosty Mug. There was many a time that I pulled into an A&W Drive In and ordered one of those mugs with ice clinging to the top edge of the glass. Today you can buy an awful imitation of the mug in Wal-Mart and Target, but what you get is a mug with liquid inside its walls that freezes. It is not even close to the original taste. And the cans of A&W root beer all taste metallic. The other great thing about the original A&W was that you could get an eight-inch basket of curly cue fries for 39 cents. Now a single one of those curly cues when strung out was a good 12 to 18 inches in length and tasted fantastic. Lots of people popped in just for a basket. The machinery to make those curly cues must have disappeared from the face of the earth. Ask for curly fries anywhere these days and all you get is one or two ringlets that don’t have much taste.
One other item that is missing from my early years is Pop-Cola or maybe it was Pop-Kola. It was a poor imitation of the original things, but it cost a lot less and with good reason since the taste was pretty miserable. The little shotgun house that was next to my grammar school served as a local quick shop for elementary kids. Only six to ten kids were permitted inside at a time. Those who had a nickel had to choose between a soft drink and a piece of candy. The drinks were inside a coke box that had a lid that opened upward. The bottles were arranged by brand inside long galvanized slots that ran the length of the box. Only the cap and the neck could be seen. To retrieve a bottle of any kind it was necessary to first slide the bottle down the slot and then make a right turn to guide it to large round hole that would permit you to pull it from its prison. Most of the soft drinks were warm to the touch. And by the time you got inside the store there was usually nothing left but Pop-Colas. That brand, despite all its misgivings, did have one advantage for 7- and 8-year-olds—there was one bottle in every case that had a special marked cap that entitled the finder to free cola. If you dawdled with your unopened cola too long the owner would snatch it from you and open it for you and your bottle cap would disappear before your eyes. Your free cola gone forever. However, the owner made the mistake of dumping all his used bottle caps on the ground in front of his store. The kids who were wise beyond their years, usually the 8-year olds, took to examining all the caps strewn on the ground looking for that elusive magical one. One day I was one of two or three eager students plying through the bottle caps when lo and behold there it was—the bottle cap with the freebie inside. I looked it over very carefully and it was a little rusted on the outside, but the inside still read “free.” I trudged inside with the rusty side down and handed it to the owner—expecting to be evicted any second. But he handed me a free Pop-Cola. For the next week I spent all my recesses looking for a rusty Pop-Cola bottle cap.
As I grew into my teen years I learned about a fascinating teenage ritual. Take 20 cents and buy an R C Cola and a small bag of Tom’s Salted Peanuts. Pour the Peanuts into the Cola and drink. It was and is quite addictive. In our neck of the woods it was pronounced RRRRR OOO CEE. Today Dr. Pepper owns the R C brand. Most people at that time spurned Dr. Pepper calling it prune juice.
The local favorite soft drink was Grapette. It was bottled 30 miles up the road at Camden, Ark. Benjamin Tyndle Fooks had moved to Camden in 1925 and bought a gas station. Soon thereafter the local bottling company went on the market. He had a hankering for something different so he bought the plant. He soon began experimenting with flavors. After experiencing hard times during the Depression, he learned through marketing studies that grape flavors were some of the most popular on the market. But there were none that had that true grape flavor. After two years of experimentation he developed the famous Grapette flavor. When he tried to copyright the name, he found to his dismay that the name had already been taken. He then traveled to Chicago and purchased the trademark for $500. He finally came up with a catchy slogan: “Thirsty or Not.” With the introduction of a lightweight bottle that had only half the glass of an ordinary cola bottle sales took off. Eventually there were 600 bottlers in 38 states. He introduced flavor syrups that were sold in clear glass banks. I had a clown bank myself, but it had one problem—it would not take half dollar coins. That was not usually a problem for me. However, when I did land one of those big denominational coins, I screwed off the top and found it would fit neatly inside the lid. In 1972 Fooks sold the company. It then passed into the hands of the company he feared the most—the Monarch Company, which had its own grape soft drink—Nu-grape. And just as Fooks feared his product passed into oblivion—at least in the United States. It still sells 70 million bottles a year on the international market. In Carson City, Nevada, two years ago I saw small bottles of Grapette, but they were not the real things. It was Nu-Grape in a Grapette bottle. But there is still hope. Wal-Mart signed a deal with Grapette International to sell the original product as a Sam’s Choice product. Just look for the grape soda variety. It is interesting that if you buy the bottle with Grapette on the outside you will not get the real McCoy. But if you buy the can from Wal-Mart without the label you will get the real thing. Now if they will only bring back those real frosty mugs and true curly due fries.